


I'm So Glad I'm Standing Here Today

by karrenia_rune



Category: Memory Sorrow and Thorn - Tad Williams
Genre: F/M, Post-Canon, Yuletide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-19
Updated: 2013-12-19
Packaged: 2018-01-05 04:49:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,595
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1089807
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/karrenia_rune/pseuds/karrenia_rune
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A look at Simon and Miriamele set post-series and a few years later, as they work to rebuild the world and learn more about each other, even as they attempt to reconcile lingering memories of the past, both good,  bad and indifferent.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I'm So Glad I'm Standing Here Today

**Author's Note:**

  * For [HardModePlus](https://archiveofourown.org/users/HardModePlus/gifts).



Disclaimer: Memory, Sorrow, and Thorn trilogy belongs to Daw Books, Tad Williams and its other producers etc. It is not mine, nor are the characters who appear here or are mentioned, with the exception  
of Brother Frederick. This was written for HardModePlus's request in the 2013 Yuletide 2013 Rare Fandoms Exchange as an extra treat, so I hope it serves! The title comes from a classic Joe Cocker song by the same name.

 

"I'm So Glad I'm Standing Here Today" 

Even through the clatter of hammer on wood, the sound of the masons and their assistants shimmying up the walls to replaster the windows and lay down a fresh coat of tar along the Hayholt's hodge-podge of roofs. If Simon felt any compunction to relive his glory days when he spent climbing up those sames walls and sitting on the roof he showed no sign of it. 

The crisp spring air sent errant breezes through the strands of Miriamele's wheat-colored hair, and tracing subtle patterns through it. Simon thought about how when she had cut and dyed so very pitch black, the better to pass unnoticed and unremarked upon first as a self-imposed spy among her father's court, and later when she had been his and Binabik's and his loyal, strong companion on the river journey to Nauglimund. 

That was perhaps, the first moment that he had begun to realize that he had been falling in love with her, even after he had he learned that there was so much more than she appeared, garbed once more in that sky blue dress, but that same girl had been inside of that dress, Miriamele had surprised him many times since then, many times. 

For her part, she forced herself to concentrate on the task at hand, distracted mostly by the circles in which her mind was turning, but also in part by the ticklish circles that Simon's fingers were making in the small of her back. For all his manly height, and his height was very difficult to ignore, there was much about Simon that was still rather charmingly boyish. Only two short years ago so many would not have believed that Simon would make much account of himself, let alone survive; but he had and did, there was much about Simon that was learning as if for the very first time. 

'Perhaps, that was what marriage was all about, thought Miriamele dreamily. 'Learning about one another, taking the good with the bad, and the indifferent and learning to compromise. God's Truth, I certainly good have learned that lesson a long time ago. For a lifetime of believing in my own importance in the world, even after my father's love turned to cold-hard indifference, I never doubted it. I thought only by stubborn, heedless pushing I could get my way. And look where that got me!' “Hah” she exclaimed aloud.

“What's wrong, Miriamele?” Simon asked as he reached up to wipe sweat from his brow, the stark white streak through his red locks falling down to nearly cover his blue eyes. 

“Nothing, really,” she replied. “And your hair wants cutting. I'll do it later when we've finished our tour.”

“Why would it want it cut?” 

Miriamele slipped away from his side and circled around him until she was looking full into his face, hands on hip, and green eyes holding his gaze with her own, saying as she did so, “Because, like I told you once before, Simon, even sheep get sheared once a season.” 

Simon knew better than to argue with her once she got 'that' expression on her face, shuffling his booted feet on the flagstones wondering if he could prolong the tour, and by doing so postpone the hair-cut. But after a moment or two decided against. “Very well, he replied. “Let's go.”

“Come on, we can't stand here maundering all day, “ she said. “We still have tour the library.”

“I can't wait until Strangyeard gets to see it!” Simon enthused. “I just hope he hasn't lost the sight in his one remaining good eye.”

“According to Uncle Jousa's latest letter, Strangyeard's eye is fine, and even it weren't I'm sure that we could find some lay brothers willing to work and read to him when his sight does go.”

They continued on, passing through to the castle's main buildings and past the chapel, skirting the site where once piles of rubble from the collapse of Green Angel Tower and Hjeldin's Tower had once stood. 

Neither of them wished to linger long in those places, despite the fact that both had their own memories of what had taken place there. For Simon, Green Angel Tower had once been the site of his boy-hood Hayholt shenanigans, long days spent climbing in the sun, and escaping from his chores, and he still hung onto to those memories like they were precious stones that one would keep in a keep-sake box, and take out every once in a while to examine and polish.

However, in more recent memory, also the site where he had wielded one of the legendary trio of blades that he helped to push back an unending black winter. 

For Miriamele, it was the site of her last and tragic last meeting with her father, at the very last instance, when it seemed as everything that Elias had ever been or could ever become had been burned away; he knew her at the last. It had been difficult for her to reconcile what had happened, her own tragic role in his death. Even now she was not sure if she had caused his death or had set him free, either way, there was really nothing she could do about it now, but it was like the phantom pain she had heard some soldiers experienced when they lost an arm or a leg. 

Despite all the good things that she had accomplished, all the good things they both had underway to rebuild not just the Hayholt but the remainder of the kingdom that they had, in a way, inherited; the pain still lingered within her.

They finally pushed on and continued to the library, greeted at the door but the ruddy, lanky Brother Fredrick who had been selected among the bevy of young priests from Nabban to oversee the new library. He bowed and said, “Welcome, Your Majesties, I do so hope this grand opening meets with your approval.”

“It's all right, Brother Frederic,” replied Miriamele, “I'm certain it will be fine.”

Brother Frederick and Miriamele went in, and much taller Simon went last, having to concentrate to avoid banging his head on the door lintel. 

Inside the place smelled of paper, and dust, and furniture polish, and a calmness that came as a welcome change to the noise of the hustle and bustle of the outside work. The wooden shelving was of oak and mahogany, the books bound in various shades of dark and light leather, with here and there bright spots of richer, more vivid colors poking out among the shelving like spring flowers first blooming among the snow-covered ground. The wooden floor had been polished to a nearly-blinding sheen and the walls were paneled on two sides, leaving the remaining back wall bare stone, and the one opposite them with bracing to put in windows to allow light and air into library.

Simon took Miriamele's hand and gave it a quick squeeze. “It's marvelous.” he said.

Other memories of sun-dappled days when he spent listening enthralled to the old man, Morgenes, in the doctor's muddled, cluttered work-room came rushing back to him, and he felt tears welling up in his eyes, thankful for all the gifts the kindly, wise old man had given to him, not just for his time, and kindness, teaching him about reading, writing, about life, really. Most importantly, for taking a scullion and teaching him that he could be so much more than he ever imagined.

“Quite, wonderful, indeed,” she added, noting Simon's rather overwhelmed response. In a way that she could not have expressed aloud, in that instant, she could understand how he felt.

“Is there anything else I can do for you?” asked Brother Frederick, “Perhaps you would like to see the private scriptoriums?” He was new to the Hayholt but even he could sense when two people wished to have a private moment all to themselves. “Well then, right, I'll just tend to a few things and when you wish to continued the remainder of the tour, I'll be in my study.”

“No, yes, in a moment,” Miriamele replied, distractedly.

At that moment she glanced up at Simon and then grasped his forearms so that she could land but lingering kisses on his lips. 

Simon blushed scarlet as the spine of a heavy volume lying on a shelf near her knees, but he soon returned the kiss as eagerly as she had given it, and for a while they stood locked together for a very long time. 

“I love you,” he whispered. “You know that right, no matter what happens, no matter what's happened in the past, I don't think that will ever change,” he said, holding her in his arms. 

“I know, Simon, I know. You will always be my own dear, Simon. I think it's just that I've always had such a difficult time saying the word, but what we have is something precious, and I don't want to lose it.”

“I understand, I think,” he replied, less certain than he was only a moment before.

“I love you, too,” she whispered.


End file.
